


Lay Still These Tired Eyes

by Patchcat



Series: Sarcasm and Sass [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: mating_games, First Time, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patchcat/pseuds/Patchcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles flips on the light in the bathroom and stares at his face in the mirror, takes in the days-old scruff and the dark circles under his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Still These Tired Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Week 3 of Mating_Games. This week was a kink grab bag. I chose shaving.

Stiles flips on the light in the bathroom and stares at his face in the mirror, takes in the days-old scruff and the dark circles under his eyes. His eyes graze over the dark bruise high on his cheek and the bandage that covers the still healing cut on his forehead. He leans heavily against the sink, trying to remember why he came in here.

A week ago, Stiles had the misfortune of falling victim to an energy monster -- and really? Of all the supernatural crap they’ve dealt with, a fucking energy eating monster?! -- and he still hasn’t fully recovered. Deaton’s theory is that’s because the monster didn’t just eat his energy, it took part of his life force -- his “spark”. As it is, he’s so tired he can barely see straight half the time; and his short term memory’s so shot to hell, he’s become a menace to himself and everyone around him. 

The pack’s trying to help, keeping him home so he can recover his strength. Stiles doesn’t know whether to be resentful that they’re making his decisions for him (again) or so fucking grateful that they care that much. 

He stares at himself and tries to remember why he’s here, the stubble on his face a distant and annoying itch. He’s never really been one for facial hair, and it kind of bugs him. He closes his eyes for a minute as sheer exhaustion washes over him. Rubbing his hands over his face, he decides that, while he may not be able to do much in this state, he can at least take care of this one thing.

His hands shake as he reaches for the can of shaving cream and his razor, and then he nearly drops the can because it’s just so _heavy_ , even though it’s only about half full. He stares tiredly at his reflection, mind a complete blank for a moment, then blinks when a large hand enters his field of vision and takes the can away. 

“What are you doing, Stiles?” Derek’s gruff voice doesn’t really surprise him. There’s always at least on of the pack hanging around lately. More often than not, it’s the Alpha on Stiles-watch. Stiles isn’t really sure how to feel about that. 

“I don’t really know,” he answers weakly, half-lidded eyes staring at Derek’s reflection in the mirror. “I can’t remember what I came in here for, and then my face itched so...”

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes, setting the can down on the sink. “Come on,” he says, reaching for Stiles’ arm. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Nope,” Stiles replies, swaying away from Derek and reaching for the can. He’s going to do this _one thing_ , damn it, because he _can_. Contrary to wolfy belief, he’s not a complete invalid.

“Stiles.” Derek sighs in exasperation and takes it back again. His face does that thing where he’s trying not to look worried and concerned and just ends up looking constipated. Stiles usually finds it a little endearing. Usually.

Stiles plants his hands on the sink and turns to glare at Derek. “Would you _please_ ,” he snarls, “quit coddling me? I can shave my damned face if I want to!”

Derek holds his hands out as if to say “okay, do what you want,” and takes a step back. Stiles nods and sprays cream into his hand, feeling it shake as he pats his face. Once he’s happy with his foam, he picks up the razor and growls as it stops inches from his skin.

“Damn it, Derek!”

“You’re going to cut yourself, idiot,” Derek says quietly, taking the razor away from him and leaning in close. Stiles can feel the heat of him radiating along his back, his thin t-shirt not protection whatsoever. “Just...Here. Let me.”

Derek’s hand is more gentle than Stiles has ever known is as his head is tilted up. Derek meets his gaze in the mirror and sets the razor to skin, drawing it slowly up from just above Stiles’ adam’s apple to the tip of his chin, flicking the foam into the sink. He keeps his strokes gentle and methodical, slowly working his way around Stiles’ neck and then over to his cheeks.

Stiles’ breath catches at the feel of warm lips at the back of his neck, and he tilts his head to give Derek better access. The razor drags slowly along his jaw, and Stiles shudders when a warm finger follows it. His eyes slide closed as Derek trails kisses in the razor’s wake, and he can feel his body responding.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers against smooth skin. Stiles feels his breath hitch and a low moan works its way out of his throat. This isn’t something that they _do_ but it’s always been something they both wanted and Stiles is too tired to fight it anymore.

He leans more heavily into Derek and his hips twitch just enough to catch the other man’s attention. A sharp, indrawn breath and the razor’s in the sink. Derek’s hands slide to the waistband of Stiles’ pajamas and just hover there, waiting. Stiles makes an impatient noise, and Derek’s hand dives down, wrapping firmly around Stiles’ straining erection.

It only takes a handful of strokes, the shaving foam making things sticky instead of smooth, and Stiles is coming all over Derek’s hand. He can feel Derek’s erection nestled between his cheeks, and he rocks back against it, encouraging Derek to take what he needs. Warm lips trail down his neck to his shoulder as Derek pulls him closer, the length of him sliding with no finesse against Stiles’ ass.

He sags back into Derek’s warmth when he feels wet warmth against his skin. Everything is still for a few seemingly endless moments. Derek draws a deep breath and kisses Stiles before leaving him propped against the sink long enough to find a washcloth to clean his hand and the foam from Stiles’ face. There’s only a token protest when Derek picks Stiles up and carries him to bed, stripping them both and curling around Stiles. 

Later there will be words about Derek treating Stiles like an invalid -- never mind that, in this moment, he pretty much _is_ one -- and about how this will change things -- Stiles is done running from whatever this is, and he’s pretty sure Derek is, too. For now, though, Stiles sinks into the warmth around him and drifts to sleep.


End file.
